


something still remains

by suganii (feints)



Series: in summer [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Author's brain is tired out and they've forgotten how to tag, Developing Friendships, Found Family, Gen, Goodbyes, Haikyuu how do I love thee let me count all the ways, endings and beginnings, happy birthday hinata, various povs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24845707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feints/pseuds/suganii
Summary: Karasuno's spring may have ended, but for many schools in Miyagi, the long journey of reconstruction and rebuilding has only just began.Or: Five perspectives leading up to the Miyagi Interhigh Qualifiers.
Relationships: Azumane Asahi & Tsukishima Kei, Coach Anabara & Johzenji Volleyball Club, Goshiki Tsutomu & Shirabu Kenjirou, Goshiki Tsutomu & Shirabu Kenjirou & Kawanishi Taichi, Kyoutani Kentarou & Watari Shinji, Nametsu Mai & Aone Takanobu, Nametsu Mai & Date Tech Volleyball Club, Tsukishima Kei & Karasuno Volleyball Club, Various Relationships, Watari Shinji & Aoba Johsai Volleyball Club, Watari Shinji & Original Character(s)
Series: in summer [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863232
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	1. karasuno.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Nicini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicini/pseuds/Nicini) for beta-ing this monster and yelling at me in turn to finish this fic haha. Also thanks to [Elle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elleskandal/pseuds/elleskandal) for pushing me further when I felt like giving up. Enjoy!

**_february._ **

Kei doesn’t consider himself the sentimental sort. An outburst of feeling, more often than not driven by impulse, the living personification of which is grinning intensely at him from the other side of the net—Kei rather despises it. Feelings are overrated. Besides, as a rule, people like that are the furthest from cool, so Kei finds them distasteful by default.

It doesn’t stop the strange sinking feeling in his gut though, that _something_ digging its claws into his stomach and making it churn, and he grimaces. He glances at the scoreboard—23 to 21, his team is still winning. The thought doesn’t cheer him up like it normally would.

On the other side of the gym, dying rays of sun slant through the windows, painting the walls in shades of warm oranges and reds, casting long shadows across the floorboards. It reminds Kei of just how much time has passed. He puffs out his cheeks as he releases a breath, keeping his hands ready at his sides. When the whistle blows, Kageyama tosses the ball in the air, muscles bunching as he jumps.

Typical of the King; five sets, and the power behind his serves haven’t lessened any. The ball just _glances_ off of Yamaguchi’s shoulder, hitting the floor before Sugawara can try to recover it.

Kei grimaces.

“Don’t mind, don’t mind,” Daichi claps his hands together, and Kei blows out another breath. His hair is sticking to his face in clumps, and he vainly tries to brush them aside.

He huffs. If he can bet on anything, it’s that the King will try to aim for the end line again. So as soon as the ball leaves Kageyama’s hand, Kei’s already shouting, his eyes meeting his friend’s firmly. “Yamaguchi!”

Yamaguchi pitches forward, and though the receive is a little messy, it’s up in the air this time, and Sugawara deftly gets under the ball, setting it to Azumane with a beautiful high toss. Kei finds himself watching the trajectory of the ball as it goes up, and Azumane-san sets it with his normal air of assurance, smashing it with ease past the combined blocking line of Ennoshita, Hinata and Tanaka.

“Nice kill, Asahi!” Sugawara holds his hands up for a high five as Yamaguchi cheers behind him.

Kei glances at the scoreboard again. 24 to 22. It won’t be long now.

Kei clears his throat, beckoning the team together. This is in all probability his last chance—and he wants to try something out. When he’s finished detailing his plan, he avoids meeting Azumane’s eyes. That gutted feeling hasn’t lessened its hold on him any, and he’d rather not deal with it right now. Instead, he walks to the starting line, keeping a tight hold on the ball in his hand.

In his mind, this is how he wants things to go: for the opposing team, it’s their strongest offensive rotation, and probably their strongest defensive rotation as well, with both Kageyama and Nishinoya in the back line. His opponents know it too, judging by the ever-so-slight slackening of tension. They really only have one possible weak spot—one which Kei absolutely intends to exploit. Having both Kageyama and Nishinoya on the same team was probably a little unfair, but Kei finds it all too fitting. If he plays his cards right, he’s about to make a fool of them both.

He balances the ball in his hand, giving it a little spin and keeping his brother’s words in his mind. A higher toss should give him space to run.

He inhales, and as soon as the whistle blows, Kei tosses the ball high up in the air, taking care to time his jump. On the other side of the net, everyone’s eyes widen. Kei allows himself a small smirk as his feet leave the ground. He can’t say he doesn’t enjoy everyone having their eyes on him.

He serves the ball. As he’d expected, due to his lack of training, there’s not too much power in his serve—it’s probably pure luck that he managed to hit it at all—so the ball just barely glances the net. It’s more than enough though, as his opponents only barely get over their surprise in time to receive the ball, and the ball is short as a result. In a pinch, Kageyama would set to Hinata; this time is no different, and the blockers are ready and waiting, the ball glancing off of Azumane’s fingers. “One touch!” he calls.

Now, this is his shot. Right here, right now. Kei runs.

“Sugawara-san!”

The ball is soaring slowly toward the ground. It’s ample time for Sugawara to set it back in the air with an overhand instead of an underpass, and Kei jumps, mindful of the front line, savouring the look of understanding settling in on the faces of the others across the net.

“The first touch is a set!” Kageyama is yelling, and then Kei’s in the air, the ball flying toward him while Ennoshita, Hinata and Tanaka roar up to meet him. Kei is grinning now, savouring the victory at the edge of his fingertips.

Time slows as the ball soars toward the palm of his hand. At the last second, Kei changes his form from a spike to a toss, high, close to the net, just the way Azumane has always liked it best. _For you, Azumane-san._

The blockers realise their mistake too little, too late. Kei watches as Azumane soars, hanging in the air for a beat that’s a breath and an eternity all at once, acknowledging the truth to himself one last time. _Win_ , he thinks, _for us, Ace_.

The ball rebounds off of Hinata’s desperate fingers, crashing onto the upper level rails with a loud ‘clang’, before bouncing back onto the floor.

The whistle blows. Kei holds his trembling fingers together, panting.

He did it. It had gone exactly as he’d planned. In a few seconds, his team will huddle together in a big hug, yet in this moment, despite everything, all Kei can feel is sadness, and now he can identify the feeling that’s been dogging him the whole day. It’s the acknowledgement of things coming to an end.

He swallows it down. The moment comes roaring back to life, and before he knows it, Sugawara is there, tugging him down a little so he can ruffle his hair with entirely too much aggression for Kei’s liking. Behind him, Sawamura pats at his back heartily. “That was _amazing_ , Tsukishima!” he grins, the expression so full of pride Kei has to duck his head again, strangely embarrassed. “Well done!”

Then, Azumane is there, and Kei feels his heart skip a beat, then settle at the slow, beatific smile that overtakes his face. “That was wonderful, Tsukishima,” he says. “I…thank you.”

And somehow, somehow. It’s enough to make the weight in Kei’s chest vanish, and he finds himself smiling back. “You’re welcome, Azumane-san,” he says, and means it.

After, when the equipment has all been put away and the gym locked up, they all make their way down to the Sakanoshita shop, where Sawamura has agreed to buy them _all_ meat buns, with Sugawara and Azumane pitching in, of course, for what is possibly the last time. Even _Kei_ is reluctant to leave too early, and so instead of saying their goodbyes and splitting up into their normal groups to walk home for the night, everyone lingers outside the shop, just enjoying each other’s presence. 

Off to one side, Hinata is hunkering down on the sidewalk with yet another game Nekoma’s enigmatic setter has recommended to him, and for once, Kei decides to wonder over to see what the fuss is about, amused that, it seems, outside of volleyball, the King _does_ actually seem to suck at most other games. Kei notes it down as a possible opportunity for him to exploit in the future. 

Yamaguchi is doing surprisingly well, though, to his mild surprise, netting a rather decent score. The game gets passed around to a few more people, and then Azumane is pushing Hinata’s phone into his hands. “Have a try,” he says, grinning, and, well, Kei doesn’t really see how he can say no to him, so he does. 

And it’s…actually not all that bad. It’s a simple concept, stacking numbers together to get even bigger numbers, but Kei quickly warms up to the game when he realises how quickly he can overtake the Boke Duo’s records, revelling in his rapidly increasing points with a smug grin. It doesn’t take too long for him to beat _both_ of the Boke Duo’s scores at all. In the end, it is only Shimizu who beats his score, and he can at least acknowledge that defeat with grace, while still lording his win over the two volleyball idiots that are his yearmates. 

“Better luck next time, Hinata, Kageyama,” he smirks, to both their indignation, and then Ukai finally emerges from the shop, telling all of them firmly that they’ll have to make their way home. 

The mood sobers immediately. For a moment, everyone is just frozen, unsure of what to do, and then Sawamura chuckles, lifting a hand in a small wave. “Well, let’s get a move on, guys. It’s getting late. Don’t be a stranger when we meet in the halls, yeah?” 

To a chorus of of-course-nots and see-you-soons, the third years eventually take their leave, bidding their farewells to the group first and heading down a section of the street. Kei has Sugawara pat his head one more time, nodding as Sugawara leaves him with parting words of “Make me proud, yeah?” and then Azumane clasps his hand in an awkward but firm shake, clapping his shoulder with his other hand as he does.

“I’ll be watching you on television for the Nationals, Tsukishima. Give ‘em hell, alright?”

“Of course,” he says, because what else can he say? Except that, as Azumane turns to leave, Kei calls him back, one last time. For this one time, he thinks he can be honest, so.

He clears his throat, and adjusting his glasses, dips his head slightly. “Umm, thank you, Azumane-san. For everything.”

Azumane smiles, guileless and proud. “Eh, you’re welcome, Tsukishima.”

He turns, joining up with the other third years, and Kei watches them go, their backs broad outlines against a horizon of blues and grays, until they turn a corner, and the darkness swallows them up too. He exhales, watching his breath form a little cloud of mist.

It’s peaceful tonight. 

“Shall we go, Tsukki?” 

Kei nods wordlessly, following Yamaguchi as they turn toward the opposite direction with their own quiet goodbyes, and start their own journey home.


	2. johzenji.

_**march.** _

__

Anabara observes the proceedings wordlessly, keeping his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes fixed, not on the ball, but on his players on the court, and the smiles etched on almost all their faces. It’s been a good day for them so far, and the wins the boys have accumulated in this set of practice matches are contributing ever further to the good mood that now surrounds them, buoying their game, lending assurance to their movements like a fortress wreathed in flowers, or maybe a shield.

And yet he knows all too well how fragile that fortress can really be—a glass house instead of one made of iron or stone, how easy it is to find the cracks in the walls, how easy to collapse. It isn’t likely to happen, not today, but Anabara is nothing if not a pragmatic coach, and a good coach always looks to the future. No team can keep winning forever; anything can happen in a match, and no matter how strong, how prepared the team may be, the odds will never truly be in anyone’s favour. There will _always_ be that one-percent probability, that one tiny outlier statistic that can smash through any wall of expectation, and dethrone even the most dangerous of enemies. More than just a battle of pure skill or technique, volleyball is also a game of _luck_. All of Miyagi, it seems, had learnt that lesson last year. Everyone will be coming into this year’s Interhigh Qualifiers wondering if what had happened at the last Spring Nationals was a fluke, if Shiratorizawa would reclaim their title as the prefectural champions, if if _if_.

Meanwhile, it is up to Anabara to do his best to prepare his team to be able to compete at the levels expected of them, to refine their plays and foster their team cohesion. The true testament of a player’s ability to him really, is in how they respond to a game that they’ve lost. Would they give up, shrug their shoulders and say there was always a next time? Or would they take that bottled-up regret, refuse to let it go, and use that frustration to channel them into working harder, working _smarter_ , so as to prevent another situation that would result in the same outcome? The true testament of a player’s ability is in their will to fight, and in that regard, Anabara has already found himself pleasantly surprised.

A few days after their match with Karasuno, Anabara had been handling paperwork in his office when he had been approached by none other than Terushima himself, alone for once without Bobata or Futamata flanking his side, looking a little sheepish and rolling his tongue against the upper ridges of his mouth. “Is there something you needed, Terushima-kun?” Anabara had asked politely, hoping inwardly that he wasn’t about to regret the question. Too many times had several members of the volleyball club gotten into trouble and/or detention. Although so far the captain’s record had been spotless, that did _not_ mean he wasn’t willing to cover for them. Anabara had unfortunately grown rather used to associating Terushima’s presence with the idea of trouble either being brewed or _having_ already been brewed.

He had prepared himself for the likeliest outcome. Instead, to his shock, Terushima had bowed slightly at the waist, and mumbled, “Please, Anabara-san, would you teach us how to improve?”

“W-what?” Anabara had only stuttered, but then Terushima had looked up, an intense gleam in his eyes as he’d repeated his request, more firmly this time.

“Our match with Karasuno taught us that as much as we can try to have fun in a game, there are other ways to fight too. ‘If you want to play, you first need a playground’, Hana-san reminded us. Well, I think that to truly have fun, we should exhaust all the options known to us. Don’t you agree, sensei?”

When Anabara had nodded, the boy had bowed again, even more deeply this time, still not a trace of his usual levity in sight. “Please continue to instruct us, so that we can keep playing on the court. That’s all we want, Anabara-san.”

Later, Anabara would find out that before Terushima had approached him, he had sought advice, both from Okudake and Misaki, as to his best course of action. Since that day, although Terushima’s maturity has since then rarely made a reappearance, Anabara’s noticed a certain undercurrent of resoluteness to the team that hadn’t been there before, not since the third years had left. Although it hasn’t always been present, although it hasn’t yet quite settled and more often than Anabara would like the boys get distracted and start to mess around, it’s _there_.

And maybe, just maybe, Anabara can coax them to hone it, can get them to grasp that opportunity that lies so enticingly in their hands, if they would only learn to take it. Until then, though, Anabara can do more than help them to merely run against the tide. He will help them create favourable winds, and _force_ that one-percent improbability to be theirs. If it means running them through synchronised attacking drills over and over until they get it right, so be it. He arranges for as many practice matches as he can to get them used to working together as a team. In their regular 2-on-2 drills, he more heavily emphasises the value of receives, and the importance of a good toss, whether the sets are quick or high. Without their last anchor holding them steady and keeping their mischievousness in check, the bad days generally tend to outweigh the good days, but even so, Anabara knows the potential of this team. If nothing else, they will serve as a good foundation for the generations to come.

Anabara is a pragmatic coach. He will see the day through when the walls that house Johzenji’s beating heart are no longer made of glass, but weathered stone. Perhaps that day will be in the far future. Or, if Johzenji is granted the good fortune of a charismatic first year that can get the whole team to rally behind him, if Terushima-kun decides to take his captaincy one step further and melds his strategies more completely into their games, perhaps it will be soon.

One thing is for sure, Anabara notes to himself as he watches Johzenji reach set point—their third one in a row now—and Terushima readies himself to serve with a few hollered encouragements. He hopes they face Karasuno again. As eager as the boys are for it, Anabara too wants to see the look on the other team’s faces when they remember that, just like their star setter, Johzenji can set from anywhere on the court too.

Anabara smiles. On the court, Terushima cheers as he scores his final service ace.


	3. shiratorizawa.

_**april.** _

__

It starts two days into their third week of practice of the new school year. Yura, their new star baby setter in the making, is in the middle of changing into his jersey when his body abruptly seizes up and he gives a loud, violent sneeze.

Without much ado, he is quickly sent back to the dorms, with stern orders to rest until he recovers.

A few days later, about a third of the squad is laid up in their beds, sniffling pitifully and similarly banned from practice. Tsutomu arrives on early Thursday morning to find Shirabu tossing a ball against a wall to the far right with more aggression than even Tsutomu is used to seeing, Shirabu’s face not quite able to mask his frustration. Since the third years—the _previous_ third years, not this current batch—had left, Tsutomu has become accustomed to receiving a little extra practice done with the new captain, but the atmosphere blanketing the gymnasium now, with Shirabu practically radiating agitation from many metres away, almost makes Tsutomu reconsider, to go back the way he came.

He stiffens as his senpai suddenly speaks, not even breaking form. “Goshiki. You’re late.”

The lack of sternness is more alarming to Tsutomu than anything else. He straightens with a wince. “Apologies, Shirabu-san! Akakura wanted me to grab something from the cafeteria for him before I left.”

At the mention of Akakura, Shirabu releases a deep sigh, catching the ball in his hands and finally turning his head toward him. “I take it he’s caught the bug too?”

Tsutomu nods. Shirabu sighs again. “Alright, well. Quickly get changed, and then we’re going to start working on receives.”

Tsutomu pauses for a moment. He doesn’t think he’s imagining it—there’s a strange quality to Shirabu’s voice, like sandpaper, and it’s definitely higher-pitched than normal. He briefly weighs the pros and cons of pointing this out to the already irate boy in his mind and shakes his head. Nope, the scolding he would almost certainly receive would not be worth it. Besides, the captain he knew was a stickler for guidelines. Pushing himself beyond his bodily limits—that was more Tsutomu’s thing. Shirabu wouldn’t force himself through practice, especially on a day when they should _all_ be resting, if he felt his body could not take it. Right?

Unfortunately, as the day proceeds, Tsutomu has to acknowledge that there had been a slight flaw in his reasoning. They’ve spent an hour on receives, and then another hour of spiking practice. By then, Shirabu has worked up a fair amount of sweat, and the third time he tosses a set that’s a little too close to the net for Tsutomu to spike comfortably, he’s fallen completely silent, face unyielding like hewn stone. Tsutomu watches in concern as his face gets considerably redder, and finally, unable to help it any longer, he calls for a break.

“I’ll get us some water, Shirabu-san!” he calls as he jogs out of the gymnasium with their water bottles, not daring to look back despite the boy’s calls for him to stay. The sun hangs low and lazy in the sky, and its welcome heat is a balm on his back after a while in the stuffy gym with only Shirabu’s company for consolation. The truth is, Tsutomu ponders as he fills the bottles up with water at the nearest water cooler, he had underestimated his senpai. His captain’s stubbornness shows itself up at the oddest of times, but Tendou-san used to compare it to Coach Washijo’s for its intensity. Tsutomu _really_ should’ve known better than to take it lightly.

When he gets back, he decides, he’s going to convince his captain to stop. He doesn’t know how, but he owes it to him to try. If it earns Tsutomu a severe tongue-lashing, so be it. Ushijima had taught Tsutomu the value of learning when to quit once. He knows that if his senpai were still around, he would’ve done the same thing.

When he toes through the doors of the gym however, bottles in hand, Shirabu is off to the side, his head in his hands, knees pressed to his chest, and a towel dropped on top of his head. He looks in far worse shape than when Tsutomu had last seen him. Beside him, Kawanishi turns, frowning at Tsutomu’s arrival. When did he get in? Tsutomu’s heart sinks.

“Goshiki,” he barks as soon as Tsutomu gets close, “why’d you let this _baka_ play for so long? Can’t you see he’s running a fever?”

“I—” Tsutomi begins, distressed, but then he’s interrupted.

“I made him practice with me, Taichi,” Shirabu groans, tilting his head upwards with considerable effort. “It was my choice.”

Tsutomu blinks. While he’s still processing the fact that Shirabu’s actually being kind of _nice_ , for once—for Shirabu’s standards anyway—Kawanishi clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “In future, Goshiki, you have my full and explicit permission to tell our captain when he’s being an idiot.”

“Hey,” Shirabu protests weakly, before he starts coughing.

Tsutomu and Kawanishi share a look. Kawanishi clicks his tongue again. “Yep, full, certified fresh _baka_.”

He sighs, beckoning Tsutomu closer. “Well, come on, let’s get him to the clinic. Goshiki, get his clothes and bag.”

Tsutomu nods, depositing the water bottles on the ground before making for the locker rooms, an uncomfortable feeling churning in his gut. He’s relieved that Kawanishi had come, of course, but all the same, there’s disappointment there too, considering that Tsutomu had to work himself up to _want_ to confront Shirabu, and in the end, his efforts haven't borne fruit. Worse, Kawanishi was _right_. He _should’ve_ spoken up earlier. At the start of practice even, when he had first clocked on to the fact that Shirabu might not have been feeling okay.

He was a terrible kouhai. Would Ushijima be proud of him if he could see him now? Tsutomu doesn’t think so. He swallows down the lump in his throat, guilt making a home in the pit of his stomach as he picks up Shirabu’s belongings. He keeps his eyes on the ground as he jogs back toward Kawanishi, now sat on the floor beside Shirabu, their heads bent together slightly as they engage in hushed conversation. Tsutomu can just make out the words “going too far” and “‘s not your fault, you _moron_ ,” before Shirabu huffs, clearly signalling the conversation is over.

“Here, senpai,” he says meekly as he passes Shirabu’s bag over to Kawanishi, and the other boy nods.

“Put this on,” he orders, pressing the club jacket into Shirabu’s reluctant hands, and then he stands, making a show of dusting his hands on his thighs. “Okay, Goshiki, let’s quickly pack up, yeah? And then let’s get out of here.”

“Yes, Kawanishi-san.”

Kawanishi makes quick work of rolling up the net while Tsutomu picks up the stray balls on the ground, mindlessly depositing them onto the ball cart and casting glances over at Shirabu from time to time as he does. His captain really does look awful, and the guilt in Tsutomu’s stomach just yawns wider at the sight. Tsutomu bites his lip but says nothing. They work in silence, as Kawanishi gathers the equipment together, pushing them back toward the storage room one by one. Tsutomu grabs a mop to wipe up the sweat on the floor, frowning.

When everything has been put away, Kawanishi helps Shirabu up while Tsutomu changes out of his jersey in the locker room, and apart from one or two mildly mocking comments from Kawanishi for Shirabu, they eventually make their way out of the gym together in tentative quiet.

They’ve only walked a couple of steps before Kawanishi sighs, cocking his head towards Tsutomu. “That’s the fourth time you’ve glanced at Shirabu already, Goshiki. Do you have something on your mind?”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean—” Tsutomu takes a breath before taking the plunge, head bowed, “I’m sorry, Shirabu-san! I should’ve tried to convince you earlier to stop practice but I didn’t. I’ve failed you. Please forgive me!”

He trembles as his senpais fall silent, awaiting his judgement with some trepidation. To his surprise, Kawanishi chuckles, patting Tsutomu’s head firmly, once, then twice. Despite himself, Tsutomu can’t help but lean into the touch, the tension in his shoulders dissipating slightly. “It’s fine, Goshiki. As long as you’ve learnt from your mistake. Besides, even if you had said something, who knows if this bonehead here would’ve listened?”

“Shut up,” Shirabu says, and Kawanishi laughs.

“See my point?”

“But—” Tsutomu begins, then stops, unable to think of anything to refute his senpai.

Kawanishi grins, wagging a finger at him. “Just don’t tell on Coach, yeah?”

“Of-of course not, Kawanishi-san!”

“That’s the spirit!” He cheers, before giving Shirabu a nudge. “Who did you kill in their sleep to get such a good kouhai anyway? You don’t deserve him.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Shirabu repeats.

Tsutomu watches in a sort of wonder as Kawanishi retaliates by poking Shirabu again, his smile stretching from one corner of his face to the other, a dimple dotting his right cheek. “Okay,” he says, “I’m going to get this _asshole_ to the old man for some medicine. And then,” he nods at Tsutomu, “you and I are going to get some breakfast. Sound good?”

Tsutomu grins back. “Okay. Thank you, Kawanishi-senpai!”

“Haha, anytime, my good padawan.”


	4. aoba johsai.

_**may.** _

__

There are things, Shinji has learnt, that he can’t fight. If he sees a hurricane coming, he knows it’s best to get out of the way.

But, in volleyball, there is no such thing as predetermined, and no play so outstanding as to be called an act of the gods, though few might come close. There is only: the work of six pairs of hands against another six, a ball that travels faster than the average speed limit on a highway, and him. The _libero_.

In volleyball, a good receive is the foundation of a good attack, but it is the central point of a brilliant defense. It is absolutely indispensable, _exactly_ the way Shinji has trained himself to be. He will mould himself into whatever the team needs, if it is what will help them win.

And that is what he tells himself. Increasingly often, as of late. He watches the look of concentration on the first year libero’s face, watches as he wipes his sweat off with his sleeve, his tongue poking at the corner of his mouth. On the other end of the court, Yahaba is already jumping up for a serve—his precision has just been getting better and better, and this time is no different, as he sends the ball hurtling toward the end line with enough strength to have rivalled that of Oikawa’s last year. It’s a good serve, aimed toward a good spot, and beside him, Kyoutani lets out an aggravated ‘tsk’, and what sounds suspiciously like a bitten off “arrogant creampuff” muttered under his breath.

For a moment he thinks Yahaba might get it in this time—and then Junichi is there, bumping the ball up furiously towards Taru. And there it is—Taru sets the ball without needing to look, for in the space of a blink Kisho is there, spiking the ball straight down. It gets blocked by Kindaichi, but only just barely. Shinji releases the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, meeting Kyoutani’s gaze.

“Fucking triplets, huh?” Kyoutani mumbles, tearing his gaze away after only a moment.

Shinji nods stiffly, fingers twitching at his side. _Fucking_ triplets indeed. Junichi’s receive was still rather clumsy, although that in itself might not be a condemnation of his abilities as much as it is a praise of Yahaba’s. The key lay in that he knew almost instinctively where the ball needed to go, just as Taru knew where to position himself, and Kisho knew when to begin his run up to spike. There is a lifetime of unspoken communication in that one play, and despite the number of times Shinji has witnessed it already, it still doesn’t fail to amaze him. Once their skills are further refined, they would be terrifying threats indeed.

He hasn’t missed the aborted glance Junichi had sent his way.

“Nice receive! You’ll get it next time!” he calls, and Junichi startles, eyes darting toward him as Shinji offers an encouraging smile. Junichi smiles back, offering a hesitant thumbs’ up.

“You’re taking this rather well,” Kyoutani observes, and Shinji startles. This is the most the other boy has ever spoken to him, and he regards the other boy curiously.

“How do you mean?”

“Aren’t you worried?” Kyoutani inclines his head toward Junichi, frowning. “He might take your spot.”

Well. That is certainly one way to put it. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to help Seijoh win,” he says diplomatically, carefully not meeting his eyes and staring instead at Yahaba, who tosses the ball up for his second serve.

He hears a quiet ‘tch’ beside him. Kyoutani says, after a beat, “I see.”

He knows the other boy isn’t intentionally being hurtful. They had formed a tentative friendship these past few months, mostly based off of the fact that Shinji’s one of the only ones who’s genuinely nice to him, but even without that, Shinji knows that it’s just in Kyoutani’s nature. He’s blunt, almost to a fault, and calls things as he sees it. All the same, Shinji’s shoulders tense, sensing the other boy’s disapproval, and he falls silent, refusing to continue their conversation any further.

Eventually, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kyoutani duck his head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay.”

Shinji watches as the triplets finally get their first ball of the day, exhaling. It was only two months ago, a day still crystallised in his memory when Seijoh had held their first round of tryouts and three boys had stepped forward in unison, declaring their names and positions with matching expressions, determination writ on all their faces. Mizoguchi-san had been unable to stop from smirking, and even Irihata-san couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face for long.

It had soon become apparent why. A libero, a setter, and a wing spiker. A perfect set of three. Their technical skills aside—above average by first year standards, but that could be improved with time—they provided that spark, that X-factor that could be a devastating weapon in time to come. On their own, they’ve already formed half a team. All that is left is to build the rest of Seijoh around them. The three new princes of the court, Kindaichi had called them—”three hellions, more like,” Yahaba had corrected, but there had been a half-smirk on his face then too. Mizoguchi-san should indeed have been proud. And Shinji should be happy.

Besides, he had played alongside his senpai far longer than Kyoutani and even Yahaba had. Shouldn’t Shinji be satisfied with that? Can he be?

“Fuck, man, look, I didn’t mean to make you doubt yourself,” Kyoutani pipes up, jolting Shinji from his thoughts. “I just…” he gives a little growl, eyes downcast, “shit. I’m not good with words. But you know you’ve got what it takes. Don’t fucking stop fighting when the ball hasn’t hit the floor. ”

Shinji blinks, surprised. Is Kyoutani actually _concerned_ for him? Shinji doesn’t see any trace of a lie in his eyes, though he wasn’t expecting to find it to begin with. He cracks a smile. “I agree. You are terrible at comforting people.”

Kyoutani bristles. “I was just—”

“—but thank you. And you’re right. I’m not going to stop fighting, and I’m not going to be left behind.”

When he says the words out loud like that, he can almost believe it. Kyoutani nods, apparently satisfied.

The 3-on-3 match ends just then, and just as he'd predicted, Yahaba is already beckoning Kyoutani over. A thought strikes Shinji just before he leaves though, and he gives a gentle tug on Kyoutani’s jersey right as he passes him by.

“Um, Kyoutani.” He straightens, mouth pressed in a firm line. “How do you know I’ve got what it takes anyway?”

Kyoutani just meets his gaze steadily, raising an eyebrow. “You applied as a setter two years ago, didn’t you?”

Shinji’s jaw drops. “Wait, you...” He’s struggling to form words, not able to reconcile his image of Kyoutani with the one being painted before him. “You remember that?”

“You were far more tolerable than fucking Yahaba, that was for sure,” he grumbles. “Speaking of,” he cocks his head at the boy in question, gesturing at him impatiently, and Shinji nods, still a little dazed.

He’s right. Two years ago, Shinji had stood in this very gymnasium, and decided he would hang up his setter’s cloak, directing all his energies into training to be a libero instead. He had carved a place for himself in this team, and proven his right to stand in during official matches. He’s taken the hard path before.

But he hasn’t thought he’d made that much of an impression on the rest of his teammates, much less on the resident hothead of Seijoh. That somehow does more to reassure him than his own half-truths could have ever done.

As things stand now, he is _still_ Seijoh’s libero. When there’s a hurricane coming, he knows it’s best to get out of the way.

But the ball hasn’t dropped yet. And until it does, Shinji won’t stop reaching for it, won’t stop trying to pull one more save, one more desperate outstretch of fingers that keeps his team alive.

There are things, Shinji has learnt, that he can’t fight. But until the whistle blows, this is still his battlefield, and he will defend it to the last.


	5. date tech.

_**june.** _

When Mai had first signed up to be the new volleyball club manager, one of the first things she had made for the team was a platter of cookies. Chocolate chips, as crunchy as she could make them, and as many as would fit in her biggest tupperware—it had been the first time she’d ever baked such a large batch. She had woken up two hours earlier that day, having prepared all the ingredients she’d needed the night before. She’d wanted it to be perfect. And it had been; a perfect platter of cookies that unfortunately had gotten exposed to the damp air of the boys’ locker rooms, moulding and having to be thrown away. It seems so long ago now, almost a full year later since Mai had joined the team, and she’s almost completely forgotten the incident.

That is, until the day before, when Aone had confessed to her the whole sorry tale—how the boys had eaten those poisoned cookies, how Oiwake-san had dumped the rest, and how Aone had been sworn to secrecy on everyone’s part, a burden that he’d carried with him, all the way until then, finally revealing it to, she supposed, the one person who deserved to hear the truth. Perhaps months ago, Mai might’ve been hurt, and sullen, but yesterday, Mai had only smiled. “Why are you telling me this, Aone?”

Aone had regarded her with serious eyes, his whole bearing solemn, and asked if she would make another platter of cookies for them again if they won.

Mai’s eyes had immediately moisted over, and she blushed. “I, um, well I,” she fumbled for a second, struggling to get a grip on her emotions, before letting out a breath to steady herself. “Yes, Aone, I promise. I will make the team the best platter of cookies if we win tomorrow.”

That was when Aone did the most surprising thing that Mai had ever seen him do—he raised his voice, clearing his throat and grabbing the attention of the rest of the team. “Nametsu-san has promised she’ll bake us a huge batch of cookies if we win tomorrow,” he told them.

Their eyes all snapped toward Mai at the announcement, and Mai nodded, trying to swallow down the lump in her throat. _Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry,_ she had told herself, putting her hands on her hips. “That’s- that’s right!” she said. “So, you’d better go out there tomorrow, and do the Iron Wall proud! Understand?”

The thing is, Mai isn’t good with speeches. She had never been, and Aone understood that. Her club journey had started with a platter of cookies—her actions always having spoken louder than words. For every time that she had stayed behind, tallying each score, their greatest misses, their greatest hits; for every time that she had stocked up the club room with tape, and checked for upgraded equipment whenever there was an opportunity; for that time she had run into Oiwake-san in the Naruko Onsen Shrine on New Years’ when the rest of the team had decided to forego coming and they had lit incense together, praying for a blessing; for every time she had sought to raise interest in the club, through every donation drive and recruitment, she had known that it would all be worthwhile.

The ball bounces onto the ground, once, twice, on Karasuno’s side of the court. There is a heartbeat of excruciating silence, and then Mai stands, her eyes filling with tears. Aone turns, slowly, his hands still red from the Karasuno shrimp’s last spike—shut down by a block, in tried and true Date Tech fashion. The iron wall has prevailed, in the end.

Mai sees the moment when it all clicks, when Futakuchi rushes forward and clasps Aone in a solemn hug, and from behind her, the crowd of supporters from their school erupt in cheers and applause. On court, the boys from the bench have knocked the rest of the players over in fierce hugs, everyone laughing, crying, screaming. Sakunami is hoisted on Koganegawa’s shoulders as he runs his own mini-victory lap, and now Mai can hear the distinctive shout behind her that she recognises as Kamasaki’s, yelling, “Aone! Obara! Futakuchi! You bastards! Do you see that, right there? Those were our kouhai. Ours, do you see them?”

Mai’s heart is too full for her chest. She rubs at her eyes in vain, but the tears don’t stop coming, and she is proud, she is so _so_ proud.

Eventually they line up, shaking the Karasuno team’s hands and then forming a line to thank their supporters. Kamasaki still hasn’t stopped yelling. Moniwa gives a few words, conveying how proud he is of them. There’s not a single dry eye in sight, and it almost makes Mai tear up all over again, but she constrains herself. She can celebrate later. There will be a lot of time for _later_ , now.

When the boys come back, waiting for Oiwake-kun to give a speech, he shocks them by going over to Aone and giving him a tight hug, beckoning Futakuchi and Koganegawa over too. Mai is pulled in and soon, the whole team is enveloped in another hug, before Oiwake-kun clears his throat, and disengages, his eyes red-rimmed.

“You have all played very well today. Thank you, all of you. I have never been more proud of you.”

Futakuchi laughs abruptly, loud and long and low. It’s the ugliest sound Mai’s ever heard, like a braying horse, but somehow, soon, the rest of the team is chuckling along, still caught in Futakuchi’s mood and a whirlwind of emotions, of joy and relief. “Welllll,” Futakuchi drawls, “I seem to recall a certain someone promising us something if we got our ticket to Nationals. No take-sies back-sies, Nametsu?”

She grins. “I am a woman of my word.”

She shares a smile with Aone, who nods back at her. Worth it. It’s all been worth it.

They have won.


End file.
